Turning and tossing and trying to sleep
In a bid to fight the night and the mind
I dream I’m Colonel Aureliano Buendia
Weaving tiny gold fishes
But the only thing that glitters tonight
Is the sweat on my roommate’s bare black body
As he dreams about joyrides on his bullet
In the big broad Banjara Hills road.
The bright blue strip of pink paracetamols
Tempts me but I dream of Dostoevsky
And decide to write one more poem.